I ate at a Japanese steakhouse last night in Detroit. This meant I wanted to enduce vomiting afterwards and the maid should probably bring a canary into my room for safety. Our Hibachi chef was an authentic Japanese master named Jorge, but in all seriousness he was awesome. He made a Mickey Mouse out of rice, then stuck the spatula into the mouth area and talked with it. I clapped like a seal, while the fat kid and his autistic brother ignored him and played video games. Kids these days…
The only bad part was the awful mom across from me that had to special order everything. “I want noodles, but only the yellow noodles and no veggies.” Then she ate all the veggies with her meal. Meanwhile, I was dangerously low on Bud Light, which goes well with everything. Plus her socially awkward kid was screaming the whole time. I would have paid Jorge to flip a hot shrimp tail into her needy face, but I was too busy eating 4000 calories of future farts. I am going to bed now, my stomach hates me.